‘Certainly, but it’s not always possible. Your address, Mr Bendrix, and your telephone number?’
‘It’s not a private line. My landlady has an extension.’
‘All my men use great discretion. Would you want the reports weekly or would you prefer only to receive the finished inquiry?’
‘Weekly. It may never be finished. There’s probably nothing to find out.’
‘Have you often been to your doctor and found nothing wrong? You know, Mr Bendrix, the fact that a man feels the need of our services almost invariably means that there is something to report.’
I suppose I was lucky to have Mr Savage to deal with. He had been recommended as being less disagreeable than men of his profession usually are, but nevertheless I found his assurance detestable. It isn’t, when you come to think of it, a quite respectable trade, the detection of the innocent, for aren’t lovers nearly always innocent? They have committed no crime, they are certain in their own minds that they have done no wrong, ‘as long as no one but myself is hurt’, the old tag is ready on their lips, and love, of course, excuses everything - so they believe, and so I used to believe in the days when I loved.
And when we came to the charges, Mr Savage was surprisingly moderate: three guineas a day, and expenses, ‘which must be approved of course’. He explained them to me as ‘the odd coffee, you know, and sometimes our man has to stand a drink’. I made a feeble joke about not approving whisky, but Mr Savage didn’t detect the humour. ‘I knew a case,’ he told me, ‘when a month’s inquiry was saved by a double at the proper time - the cheapest whisky my client ever paid for.’ He explained that some of his clients liked to have a daily account, but I told him I would be satisfied with a weekly one.
The whole affair had gone very briskly: he had almost convinced me by the time I came out into Vigo Street that this was the kind of interview which happened to all men sooner or later.
3
‘And if there’s anything more you could tell me that would be relevant?’ I remember Mr Savage had said - a detective must find it as important as a novelist to amass his trivial material before picking out the right clue. But how difficult that picking out is - the release of the real subject. The enormous pressure of the outside world weighs on us like a peine forte et dure. Now that I come to write my own story the problem is still the same, but worse - there are so many more facts, now that I have not to invent them. How can I disinter the human character from the heavy scene - the daily newspaper, the daily meal, the traffic grinding towards Battersea, the gulls coming up from the Thames looking for bread, and the early summer of 1939 glinting on the park where the children sailed their boats - one of those bright condemned pre-war summers? I wondered whether, if I thought long enough, I could detect, at the party Henry had given, her future lover. We saw each other for the first time, drinking bad South African sherry because of the war in Spain. I noticed Sarah, I think, because she was happy: in those years the sense of happiness had been a long while dying under the coming storm. One detected it in drunken people, in children, seldom elsewhere. I liked her at once because she said she had read my books and left the subject there - I found myself treated at once as a human being rather than as an author. I had no idea whatever of falling in love with her. For one thing, she was beautiful, and beautiful women, especially if they are intelligent also, stir some deep feeling of inferiority in me. I don’t know whether psychologists have yet named the Cophetua complex, but I have always found it hard to feel sexual desire without some sense of superiority, mental or physical. All I noticed about her that first time was her beauty and her happiness and her way of touching people with her hands, as though she loved them. I can only recall one thing she said to me, apart from that statement with which she began - ‘You do seem to dislike a lot of people.’ Perhaps I had been talking smartly about my fellow writers. I don’t remember.
What a summer it was. I am not going to try and name the month exactly - I should have to go back to it through so much pain, but I remember leaving the hot and crowded room, after drinking too much bad sherry, and walking on the Common with Henry. The sun was falling flat across the Common and the grass was pale with it. In the distance the houses were the houses in a Victorian print, small and precisely drawn and quiet: only one child cried a long way off. The eighteenth-century church stood like a toy in an island of grass - the toy could be left outside in the dark, in the dry unbreakable weather. It was the hour when you make confidences to a stranger.
Henry said, ‘How happy we could all be.’
‘Yes.’
I felt an enormous liking for him, standing there on the Common, away from his own party, with tears in his eyes. I said, ‘You’ve got a lovely house.’
‘My wife found it’
I had met him only a week ago - at another party: he was in the Ministry of Pensions in those days, and I had buttonholed him for the sake of my material. Two days later came the card. I learned later that Sarah had got him to send it. ‘Have you been married long?’ I asked him.
‘Ten years.’
‘I thought your wife was charming.’
‘She’s a great help to me,’ he said. Poor Henry. But why should I say poor Henry? Didn’t he possess in the end the winning cards - the cards of gentleness, humility and trust?
‘I must be going back,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t leave it all to her, Bendrix,’ and he laid his hand on my arm as though we’d known each other a year. Had he learnt the gesture from her? Married people grow like each other. We walked back side by side, and as we opened the hall-door, I saw reflected in a mirror from an alcove two people separating as though from a kiss - one was Sarah. I looked at Henry.
Either he had not seen or he did not care - or else, I thought, what an unhappy man he must be.
Would Mr Savage have considered that scene relevant? It was not, I learnt later, a lover who was kissing her; it was one of Henry’s colleagues at the Ministry of Pensions whose wife had run away with an able seaman a week before. She had met him for the first time that day, and it seems unlikely that he would still be part of the scene from which I had been so firmly excluded. Love doesn’t take as long as that to work itself out.
I would have liked to have left that past time alone, for as I write of 1939 I feel all my hatred returning. Hatred seems to operate the same glands as love: it even produces the same actions. If we had not been taught how to interpret the story of the Passion, would we have been able to say from their actions alone whether it was the jealous Judas or the cowardly Peter who loved Christ?
4
When I got home from Mr Savage’s and my landlady told me that Mrs Miles had been on the telephone, I felt the elation I used to feel when I heard the front door close and her step in the hall. I had a wild hope that the sight of me a few days before had woken not love, of course, but a sentiment, a memory which I might work on. At the time it seemed to me that if I could have her once more -however quickly and crudely and unsatisfactorily - I would be at peace again: I would have washed her out of my system, and afterwards I would leave her, not she me.
It was odd after eighteen months’ silence dialling that number: Macaulay 7753, and odder still that I had to look it up in my address book because I was uncertain of the last digit. I sat listening to the ringing tone, and I wondered whether Henry was back yet from the Ministry and what I should say if he answered. Then I realized that there was nothing wrong any more with the truth. Lies had deserted me, and I felt as lonely as though they had been my only friends.